Monday, July 02, 2012

where i'm from

The fascinating Ms. Stitch passed one of those bloggy awards to me. (Thanks!) And rather than bore you with 7 more things you didn't know about me, I decided to try this little writing exercise based on Where I'm From.

I am from oatmeal, International Harvester and merthiolate.

I am from rocky river beds, worn smooth by water in summer, bleached by sun and snow in winter.

I am from the the song of the meadowlark, the itch of a burr stuck in my sock.

I am from a mixture of butter and honey spread on hot biscuits,

from Phyllis and Florence.

I'm from getting with the program and shooting the moon.

From always pinning before sewing and not pushing the pencil.

I'm from "Come Lord Jesus" and "We have met the enemy and he is us."

I am from a place where a woman is legendary for sewing a prom dress with only one pin.

From Pig Eye, pot roast, and chokecherries boiled into syrup.

From a scar rubbed with the fat cut off a steak. My fractured skull healed, but I was branded by the expression I awoke to.

I am from hand-knitted baby clothes, yellowed from spit-up and wrapped in tissue; from photo slides randomly drawn from a giant glass pickle jar and held to the light; from a small stack of dress patterns my my mom meant to sew for my sister and I forty years ago.

She keeps the patterns in a drawer, for little girls who never outgrew dresses she never got to making.

I know I should pass the award on, but I 'd rather read some more versions of this poem, yet I know it would be cruel to ask anyone to write a poem. How about this? Give it a try leave a link to your version in the comments. Heck, if you don't have a blog, leave a poem as a comment.

Comments

where i'm from

The fascinating Ms. Stitch passed one of those bloggy awards to me. (Thanks!) And rather than bore you with 7 more things you didn't know about me, I decided to try this little writing exercise based on Where I'm From.

I am from oatmeal, International Harvester and merthiolate.

I am from rocky river beds, worn smooth by water in summer, bleached by sun and snow in winter.

I am from the the song of the meadowlark, the itch of a burr stuck in my sock.

I am from a mixture of butter and honey spread on hot biscuits,

from Phyllis and Florence.

I'm from getting with the program and shooting the moon.

From always pinning before sewing and not pushing the pencil.

I'm from "Come Lord Jesus" and "We have met the enemy and he is us."

I am from a place where a woman is legendary for sewing a prom dress with only one pin.

From Pig Eye, pot roast, and chokecherries boiled into syrup.

From a scar rubbed with the fat cut off a steak. My fractured skull healed, but I was branded by the expression I awoke to.

I am from hand-knitted baby clothes, yellowed from spit-up and wrapped in tissue; from photo slides randomly drawn from a giant glass pickle jar and held to the light; from a small stack of dress patterns my my mom meant to sew for my sister and I forty years ago.

She keeps the patterns in a drawer, for little girls who never outgrew dresses she never got to making.

I know I should pass the award on, but I 'd rather read some more versions of this poem, yet I know it would be cruel to ask anyone to write a poem. How about this? Give it a try leave a link to your version in the comments. Heck, if you don't have a blog, leave a poem as a comment.